Sherlock Holmes: Vampire Hunter
by Autumnstar17
Summary: Sherlock and John find themselves chasing down a murderer who may or may not be… an actual vampire? Although at first the two remain skeptical, John is attacked and becomes increasingly paranoid that he, too, will turn into a creature of the night. Is all this just an elaborate prank? Or is there really some darker force at work, and how will they stop it then?
1. Chapter 1

"_Consequently, if you believe God made Satan, you must realize that all Satan's power comes from God and so that Satan is simply God's child, and that we are God's children also. There are—_"

"Boring!" Sherlock Holmes ejaculated, stretching his arms out over the couch dramatically.

John Watson looked up from the book he had been reading and frowned, folding it shut in his lap. "I'm sorry, but when someone asks me to read them a story to help pass the time between cases, I don't think it's very polite to call them_boring_."

"I wasn't calling _you_ boring. The book is boring."

"And I like the book. So yes, essentially, you are calling me boring."

"Is that so? In that case yes, I suppose you are also boring. Sorry for the confusion."

"And what do you mean, 'boring'?" John went on, reopening his copy of _Interview With the Vampire_ and scanning his eyes across the page that he had just stopped at. "It's a gothic romantic period piece."

"I specifically asked you to read me something exciting."

"Vampires _are_ exciting."

Sherlock shut his eyes and pressed his hands together across his chest. "No, they're really not. Aside from being entirely fictional, vampires are both cliche and archaic and any synonym of the two. To sum it up in one word: boring."

"It's Anne Rice. This thing's a classic."

"Would you read _Gossip Girl_ if someone told you it was a classic?" Sherlock shot back.

John hesitated for a moment before jumping up and tucking his novel beneath an arm. "I think we're done here," he announced, taking several steps forward.

"Oh, John, don't be like that!" Sherlock exclaimed, craning his neck backwards to try and look at his flatmate as he spoke to him. "It's not your fault that the book was terribly boring. I'm sure you have plenty of other stories that I might like better, maybe something about—"

"Then read them yourself!" John spat, disappearing into the kitchen with a huff.

Sherlock waited for a moment to see if John would return. When he didn't, the consulting detective let out a rather exaggerated sigh before turning around and flopping onto his stomach.

-x-

That evening, John had reclaimed his armchair and was in the middle of plowing through Interview With the Vampire by himself when there was a knock at the door. "Pizza's here," he called out, hardly bothering to look up from his book.

A little ways away from him Sherlock showed no signs of moving, let alone getting up to answer the door. Grumbling something to himself, the doctor creased a page to mark his spot and set the book down in his seat before opening the flat's door himself. Sherlock waited patiently as he paid the delivery man and relieved him of his package. John then shut the door with a hip and set the pizza box down uneven over several stacks of miscellaneous papers that covered their coffee table.

Sherlock slid forward and opened the box, grabbing a napkin with which to wipe down any excess grease on his slice before picking it up. With a roll of his eyes John took his own, not bothering to do the same. "C'mon, a little grease won't kill you," he mused.

"Fat from melted cheese? No, probably not. However, if you knew half of the things it could do to you over time and in large quantities…" Sherlock took a bite from his pizza, immediately dabbing the napkin against his mouth afterwards. "And let's face it, attempting to cut out a few unnecessary calories from my diet is a much better use of my time than fantasizing about Edward."

"Lestat!" John hissed back. "…and I don't _fantasize _about him. That would be weird."

"Of course you don't."

John pouted, biting into his slice in silence. Just then there was the slight buzzing sound of a mobile going off. John looked up once more. "Hey, I think that's—"

"Yes, I know. It's me." Sherlock fished around his trouser pockets for a moment before finding the object and the text message he had just received:

_Turn on the telly. Might find it worth your while._  
_-Lestrade_

"What was it?" John asked curiously, all the while attempting to pull off a string of cheese that had gotten stuck to the bottom of his chin. "New case?"

Without answering his friend, Sherlock reached for the remote and flipped on the telly. It had already been set to the local news, where a middle-aged Asian reporter was in the middle of a live broadcast.

"_…what the police can confirm is that the body found did, in fact, have a set of visible puncture marks on the back of her neck,_" the newscaster explained as she pressed a microphone close to her chest. "_Officials hesitate to pinpoint a cause of death, but locals seem convinced that who - or what - is behind all this should be obvious._"

The screen cut to two young boys. "_It was the vampire!_" one of them squealed excitedly. The second pushed in front of his companion, coming a little too close to the camera. "_Yeah, it's true! We saw it!_"

"_You saw it?_" someone asked from behind the camera. "_And what did this… vampire look like?"_

_"Uh-huh! He was, uh, really tall! And he was wearing all black - and a cape! And he was _really_ fast! We saw him fleeing the scene when he - he - he TURNED INTO A BAT!_"

John snorted upon hearing this. "No wonder the police are baffled, if some cooky kid's 'eye-witness account' about some guy turning into a bat is all they have to go off of." He waited a moment for Sherlock to make a comment as well, but was answered by silence. John tilted his head up to see Sherlock already throwing on his iconic peacoat and scarf. "You don't seriously believe their story?" he challenged.

"Oh, come now, John," Sherlock smiled. "I've been cooped up all day, and you know I can't resist the interesting ones."

"Interesting? I thought you were just going on about how vampires were_boring_?"

"The concept of vampires themselves? Quite boring, yes. However, how often does one get the chance to hunt one down? Now that's what I call exciting! Now hurry up John, we haven't got all night!" Sherlock did a little jump for joy upon exiting the flat.

John sat by himself for a brief matter of seconds before ripping off a second and third slice from the pizza, making an effort to get into his coat with the two of them in one hand (he accomplished the second sleeve by shoveling them both in his mouth at the same time), and scurrying after Sherlock.

TO BE CONTINUED…


	2. Chapter 2

By the time Sherlock and John exited their cab and stepped off the curb all of the commotion that had been shown on the telly had seemed to have died down. The neighborhood was now quiet and dark, its streets near deserted, save the huddle of police vehicles indicating where they were headed. As the crime-fighting duo approached the flashing red and blue lights, they recognized a familiar (and admittedly unfavorable) face.

"Well, well," Sally Donovan sneered. "Looks like there's some murderer out there who's just as much of a freak as you are."

"Shut up," John muttered under his breath. However, Sherlock remained unphased as he lifted the caution tape high enough for John to duck under and then followed his flatmate onto the unusual crime scene.

Several feet ahead of them lay the body of a girl who couldn't have been much older than twenty. Sure enough, her long blond hair had been pushed aside to reveal two considerable-sized puncture wounds side by side upon her neck. There also didn't appear to be any blood - in or out of the victim. Every noticeable inch of skin on the poor girl was a pasty, almost gray complexion, making it rather hard to believe that she had only been dead for a matter of hours.

As John looked on curiously, he felt a hand place itself upon his shoulder and spun around, his heart racing for a split second.

"Lestrade!" he yelped, jerking in surprise. "You can't sneak up on people like that!"

"Glad you boys could make it," the D.I. began, ignoring him. "I was hoping you'd be able to make something of the situation. Thus far I've got my best men drawing blanks and please - whatever you do - don't say include the word 'fangs' in your deduction!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow before turning back to John. "Would you like the first go?" he offered.

John looked up at Sherlock, eyes wide, and pointed to himself as if confirming that it was okay. He then took several steps forward and peered over the dead woman's body.

"Well?" Lestrade pressed.

"Um. It's... hard to pinpoint an exact cause of death without a proper autopsy. There doesn't appear to be a lot of blood - any, really - so perhaps the killer... removed it, somehow? Can't fathom why. Doesn't seem like the... ordinary thing for someone to do after they've just murdered someone."

"And...?"

"And that means... uh, she was probably killed before the culprit decided to sink their-"

"Don't say the F-word!"

"...teeth. I was going to say 'teeth'. Before the culprit decided to sink their teeth into her," John concluded. He turned over his shoulder to make eye contact with his companion, eyebrows raised expectantly. "Well? How off the mark was I?"

"You scratched the surface," Sherlock answered. "My turn? Oh, goodie." The detective took a deep breath before unleashing a stream of fast-paced deductions, hardly slowing down to see that his audience was able to keep on the same page.

"Our victim is a waitress, probably just got off of her shift before being killed. Pity she didn't figure today would be a good day to work overtime. 'But how do you know that, Sherlock?' To pick just one of the many clues that present themselves, she's still in uniform: a simple single-colored shirt and dark pants. However, her ID plate has been removed - you can still see where it was once pinned on, just above her left breast. Perhaps she took it off after leaving the joint, but it's more likely that the killer took it off, wanting to keep her identity a secret, not that it would have worked. The woman is also right-handed; a pad of lined paper and pen have been stored in her right front pocket - both of which were used for taking orders."

Lestrade folded his arms. "Okay, yes, but how did she die?"

"Well, there are three possible explanations..." Sherlock trailed off, crouching down in order to get a closer look at the region of the victim's neck. "On second thought, make that two, the first being that she was poisoned just hours before. The waitress was on her way home from work when she began to feel the effects. Her attacker came from behind, but she was too weak to fight back. She was then stabbed with an object with two points - or perhaps a single point twice - and after having died all of her blood was drawn out, the most obvious tool for this being a medical instrument."

Lestrade nodded slowly at this. "So then, what's the second possibility?"

Sherlock stood up again, smiling. "Again, our victim was on her way home after a busy day at work. As soon as it was dark she was attacked from behind by a three-thousand-or-so-year-old serial killer and quite literally turned into a Bloody Mary."

"Sherlock!"

"What? I went out of my way to not say 'fangs'."

John pressed a sleeve against his mouth in a poor attempt to stifle a laugh. Lestrade glared at him for a moment before blurting out, "But assuming it has nothing to do with the dark romance aisle, where am I supposed to start?"

"Start by learning everything you can about who our victim actually was. Find out about her family, relations, any possible enemies. You might also want to look into where she worked - restaurant staff, co-workers, a manager... And more importantly, why am I telling you how to do your job?"

Flustered by this, Lestrade opened his mouth as if to respond, but before he could do so the consulting detective had already rushed off of the crime scene as quickly as he'd come. John muttered a quick apology on his behalf and then scurried after the man.

"What did you mean back there? You love doing Lestrade's job for him!"

"He lets me get away with more when he thinks it's his own idea," Sherlock explained.

John blinked. "So, do you really think that looking into this girl is the quickest way to get to her killer?" he asked.

"Of course not," Sherlock responded coolly. "Just giving the Yard something to keep busy with while we go and investigate the hospital, particularly who had access to Miss Vicky Timm during her stay."

John skid to a halt with a confused countenance. "Vicky? And what do you mean, hospital...?"

"Do try and keep up," Holmes called from over his shoulder, hardly slowing his pace. John let out an exasperated sigh before hurrying to his flatmate's side once more.


	3. Chapter 3

Bzzt! Bzzzzt!

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and he immediately glared at the mobile sitting directly in front of him. He didn't remember when he'd dozed off or for how long, but it was no longer dark out. In the place of a pillow sat an enormous 3-ring binder, filled to the brim with hospital records of patients admitted within the previous month. The consulting detective moaned, stretching his arms up above his head with a yawn.

Bzzt! Bzzzzt! the mobile vibrated again.

"Alright, alright," Sherlock muttered softly to himself, picking the thing up. "Things would be so much easier if everyone just texted instead of calling... Hello?"

-x-

"John! John, wake up! John! John! John! John!"

Sherlock shoved at half-conscious figure's backside once more between pacing back and forth across the bedroom. Eyeing the window deviously, Sherlock grabbed ahold of both curtains and pulled them aside, releasing a horrifyingly bright patch of sunlight into the John's bedroom and, more importantly, over his face.

John made somewhat of a disgruntled, gargling noise and opened one eye in order to read the digital clock that sat across from him on his bedside table. Upon seeing this he repeated the sound and pressed a pillow over his head unhappily. "This had better be pretty fucking important for 6:50 in the morning," he warned, his voice coming out muffled underneath the stuffed object.

"It is!" Sherlock insisted and yanked the covers off of John's bed. The man yelped in surprise and chucked his pillow at Sherlock, who ducked and continued excitedly, "We might have a new lead!"

"I thought Saint Peter's was our lead?" John asked groggily, struggling to force himself into an upright position.

"No! I mean, yes. Well, it was all we had to go on. But this has to potential to be an even better lead! Now, c'mon - hurry up and get dressed! I can't spend all morning waiting on you!" With a swoosh of his own coat, Sherlock disappeared into the hallway, slamming the door shut behind him.

John watched him leave with an unamused, half-asleep expression before slipping on a pair of trousers. "Fucking... spontaneous... dickhead..." he cursed under his breath.

-x-

An hour or so later the two of them found themselves standing outside of a small one-bedroom house. John took a step forward and rapped on the door. Mere seconds later it was flung open to reveal a young gothic chick with jet-black hair dyed red at the tips, bangs, and at least one piercing on every conceivable body part. Oh, the deductions Sherlock made upon that first impression...

"Ah, yes, hello! You must be Miss Reyes, I take it?"

"Call me Raven! Raven Reyes," the girl replied, her voice surprisingly chipper despite what her outward appearance might suggest. "Oh, please, don't just stand there awkwardly outside!" Raven unlatched the door, inviting Sherlock and John into her home.

Thanking her, the two of them stepped inside and almost any and all positive first impressions seemingly jumped right out the open window. John paused in the girl's living room, his eyes practically bulging out of their sockets. "I-It's a lovely place you've got here," he squeaked, casting an uneasy glance in Sherlock's direction.

"Awww, why thank you!" Raven said, throwing herself down upon a pile of red and black bean bags in the corner.

Basically every conceivable bit of wall was covered up by posters and magazine clippings featuring shirtless actors and emo band logos, plus the occasional angsty love poem scrawled in ink across a ripped sheet of notebook paper. There was little furniture in the room save a short bookshelf (80% of its contents being things along the lines of Twilight) and single plastic table pushed up against the wall. On it sat a desktop computer, surrounded by the clutter of stacks of loose papers.

Sherlock hardly bat an eye at the odd interior decor. "Miss Reyes-"

"Please, why don't we skip the formalities?" Raven suggested. "Just call me by my first name."

Sherlock pursed his lips together into a tight smile. "Fair enough. So, Myrtle-"

"Who told you that? Did you research me?!" their host accused, turning a bright shade of red.

Picking a student ID card off of the desk beside him, Sherlock continued to read off the girl's information: "Ms. Myrtle J. Reyes, age 19, second year at uni..."

"Give that back!" Raven hissed, practically lunging at Sherlock in order to rip the card from his grasp. Nonchalantly, the detective slid his hands back into his coat pockets and continued on as if nothing had occurred.

"Miss Reyes, you called earlier this morning saying you know who killed that poor waitress? Is that correct?"

"Yes, of course!" Raven huffed, folding her arms. "It was Alexander Theis, my other half."

"I'm sorry," John interrupted, "you say your boyfriend is the murderer?"

"Well, yeah. Oh, don't look at me like that! It's nothing unusual. He's a vampire, see; flammable under direct sunlight, sleeps upside-down when not in his coffin, the whole sha-bang! That's why I don't keep any mirrors around. Makes him feel self-conscious."

John raised an eyebrow. "Okay, yes, but... you do know vampires aren't real, right?"

Raven frowned. "Oh, don't tell me: you're one of those people, aren't you? Refuse to believe things until they stare you straight in the face?"

"Yes. I-I mean, no! I don't know! But come on, vampires? Seriously?"

"When I've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad it might seem, must be the truth," Raven quoted, sticking her pierced nose into the air. "Isn't that what it said on your friend's website?"

"Well, okay, yeah, but he wasn't implying that-"

"Oh, shut up, skeptic."

Sherlock stepped between the two, interrupting their little spat. "Regardless, Miss Reyes, I trust you understand why we'll need a little more information to go on if you really want to help our investigation."

"Help your investigation?" Raven echoed. "Did you not catch a word I said over the phone? I don't want to help your investigation, I want you to shut it down! Call your cop friends off!"

John pushed passed Sherlock once more. "Raven, someone's been killed! Does that mean nothing to you?"

"People die every day! Look, I don't want to be an accessory to murder any more than you would, but just because a couple housecats went missing, does that really make it a good idea to go hunt down the fox that did it? Perhaps you're new to the whole supernatural scenario, but you can't just hunt down a vampire. That's not how it works." Hip out to the side, Raven leaned against the edge of her desk. "If you want to go on some wild goose chase over the whole thing, fine. But don't expect my help; just thought I'd save you the trouble."

Seeing that there was no sense in trying to reason with the girl who had long since checked out of reality, Sherlock nodded towards Raven and turned to leave. "Thanks for the advice; I'll try not to delete it too quickly. Come now, John. We'd best be off."

Once more John awkwardly shuffled out after his companion. "Well, so much for a better lead," John muttered flatly upon stepping out the front door. "All we got out of that visit was some looney who thinks her boyfriend is some kind of make-believe monster."

"What are you talking about? Thanks to Miss Reyes' cooperation, we now have a name to go off of..."

"So? We don't even know that it's real."

Sherlock stopped, spinning around to face John, who very nearly collided into him at this abrupt movement. "Suppose that this Alexander kid really is a vampire. Where would you start looking?"

John frowned. "He's not a vampire."

"Oh, use your imagination!"

"It'll take an awful lot of..." John sighed. "Alright, fine! Uh, assuming he'd be sleeping during the day, probably a crypt somewhere? Mausoleum?"

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. "Mm, yes. A cemetary, good. We'll start there."

"Can't we at least get breakfast first?" John pleaded, his voice whiny and irritated.

Much to John's surprise, Sherlock took the doctor's arm in his and continued down the pavement. "That's enough a plan as any. Pancakes first, next we slay this bloodsucker!" John snorted at this but said nothing.


	4. Chapter 4

"So, what exactly are we looking for again?"

"A white picket fence with a sign reading warning: beware of bats."

Lowering his flashlight, John shot Sherlock a glare. The two investigators were currently searching a long-forgotten catacombs just below the nearest cemetery to the crime scene from the night before. Unfortunately, the majority of their findings included cobwebs, thick layers of dust, and the occasional stray rodent.

Sherlock sighed. "Just keep your eyes out for any signs of the... well, undead."

"Please tell me you aren't seriously buying into this vampire crap," John muttered, feeling his fingers across a compact gravesites lining the tunnel's wall. To be perfectly honest, the whole idea of where they were and what they were doing made him feel uneasy, but there was no sense in giving Sherlock the satisfaction of admitting it. "You know, this is Baskerville all over again, isn't it? You get all... excited trying to prove some preposterous theory wrong, even going as far as trying to convince me, for the sake of some dumb experiment, that-"

But John had hardly finished his sentence before he slipped backwards over an at first glance randomly placed curtain against the marble wall. Falling onto his ass with an unpleasant thud, the entire curtain tore from its holder and then came tumbling down over John and effectively burying the army doctor beneath its many folds. Looking up from what he had been previously tasked with, Sherlock rushed to his friend's side and immediately begun digging him out from under. John flailed about pathetically under the weight of the thing until he was at last free.

"Well done, John," Sherlock complimented the other man as he helped him to his feet.

"Oh, what have we here? Sarcasm? How original," John droned.

Sherlock held up an arm, gesturing to what had been hidden behind the seemingly useless decoration, considering no sunlight could find its way into the catacombs. "No, I really do mean it. Well done indeed!"

This new discovery in the tomb's layout was a marble archway, giving way to a short flight of stairs that lead to a lower level."

"Oh, joy. Even more creepy mazes of dead people to explore."

"Oh shush," Sherlock teased, disappearing into the blackness with a single flashlight as his guide.

-x-

"You open it."

"No, you open it!"

"Alright, fine!" John hissed through clenched teeth. Fitting his light source into his mouth, John took a deep before popping up the old coffin's lid. Taking the flashlight in his hand again, John peering into the velvet-lined box uneasily...

It was empty.

He let out a relieved sigh. "No-go," he called out to Sherlock, who he assumed was still just a little ways away. It was then that he felt an icy hand touch the side of his neck.

John smiled somewhat amid the darkness. "C'mon, Sherlock," he whispered, "what're you playing at now?"

"I heard my name?" Sherlock answered rather loudly, his voice clearly coming from the other end of the room.

Having missed something John said to him and now curious, Sherlock pointed his flashlight in his companion's direction... only to spot a dark and almost indistinguishable figure hovering behind John as he stood frozen in place.

A loud clank echoed throughout the near-empty room when John dropped his flashlight and let out a high-pitched girly scream. Sherlock held his own flashlight out in front of himself as if it were a weapon and charged after John's attacker. The culprit made a run for it, fleeing into the growing darkness with a long, black cape flowing behind him.

Sherlock only made it so far before losing sight of the stranger in the dark catacombs, at which point his own flashlight began to dim. The detective cursed something under breath and smacked the faulty think against his leg several times. The light flickered on and off for a couple seconds before ceasing to work altogether. Sherlock let out a frustrated growl from the back of his throat, now entirely encased in blackness.

Sherlock cupped his hand over his mouth, shouting, "John?" He was greeted by silence and gave it another go, this time slightly louder. "John?"

"Yes? Sherlock?" John's response sounded weak and strained in comparison.

Stretching both arms out to his sides, Sherlock fumbled around in the dark cautiously before he finally found the wall and pressed close against it, using the thing to help him find his way back. Back to John, who needed him.

"Keep talking," Sherlock instructed. "It'll help me find you faster."

"I don't think... that's such a bright idea..." John managed.

Luckily, it sounded as if Sherlock were getting closer. In another minute or so he had relocated the hidden room John accidentally discovered and retraced the path they'd taken to get to the large, open room in what could only be the center of the catacomb maze. He repeated the directions in his head, feeling along the cold wall all the while. Left, right, right...

Finally, and after what had seemed like an eternity to the increasingly panicked consulting detective, Sherlock's eyes drew in on a faint light in the distance: John's flashlight. Forgetting to be extra careful and not trip in the dark, Sherlock made a mad dash for the thing, scooping the object up and pointing it at John, who had been lying sideways across the floor, an arm pressed up against his neck.

Sherlock remained crouching and reached out towards John with his free hand. "Let me see," he urged.

But John pulled back in response. "I'm fine," he promised softly.

Ignoring his protests, Sherlock took John by the wrist and pulled his arm away, flipping his arm over to see the palm of John's hand covered in what could only be his own blood. Furrowing his eyebrows, Sherlock leaned in closer and focused the light on the side of John's neck. Just as with the dead woman, there were two large puncture marks. The only real difference was that instead of having been sucked dry, these open wounds were still gushing blood. Without a word Sherlock leaned back again, placed the flashlight back and reached for his scarf.

"No, don't-"

"Shh." Sherlock took the signature blue scarf from his own neck and tied it around John's as tightly as he could without restricting his breathing. The rest of the scarf was wadded up into a tight ball, which he folded John's hand back around to hold in place. Sherlock took the flashlight once more, admiring his handiwork.

"He bit me," John rasped, shooting a distressed look in the other man's direction. "He bit me! With... with real, sharp fangs!"

"You're going to be okay, John," Sherlock promised. "It wasn't that bad. I doubt you'll bleed out before we make it back to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson can take a look at it just to make sure, and-"

"I got bitten... by a vampire! A vampire, Sherlock! And honest-to-God vampire!"

"You don't know that. For all we know, it may've just been a madman who enjoys Halloween too much for his own good." But John didn't look any less concerned at this. His eyes widened and for a brief moment Sherlock could've sworn that they had begun to water... or perhaps it was just the bad lighting, or lack thereof?

"Sherlock... what if it was real? What if I start to, I don't know change? Am I going to turn into a-"

"No. Not if I have anything to say about it." Sherlock helped John to his feet for the second time that day, their eyes locked on one another. "I promise, nothing is going to happen to you. Now, enough of this vampire nonsense; let's just worry on finding our way back."


	5. Chapter 5

"Leave it!" John whined. "I'm the one who's had medical training around here. I should think I know how to bandage my own wounds." Mrs. Hudson promptly shushed John and continued to fidget with the thick wad of cloth taped over his neck. He sighed, looking away. "It wasn't even that bad. I'll be fine."

"It's true," Sherlock agreed. "It was really more of a love bite than a full-fledged attack." This was met by a quick glare from John.

"What did you say you were bitten by, again? A snake?"

"A crazy guy..."

'Well, it's debatable," Sherlock purred.

John spun around again, fuming. "Okay, can we not? Please."

Thinking it best not to interfere, Mrs. Hudson gathered up her things and made for the door. "Well, you boys be careful now," she warned. "I don't know just what you're dealing with, but I'd really rather you didn't make a habit of returning with open wounds."

They thanked their landlady for her assistance and waited in a tense silence until the woman's footsteps could be heard at the bottom of the staircase before resuming their little spat.

"Okay, so just maybe for a little bit back there I was legitimately concerned that I would become... well, a you-know-what. But I'd just been attacked! You'd be worried, too, given the circumstances!"

Sherlock frowned. "What are you saying, I'm not allowed to tease anymore because the whole thing was such a traumatic experience for you?

"Traumatic is a bit of a stretch. A little scary? Okay, yeah. Sure."

"A little?"

"Yes, a little. What about it?"

"...Your scream suggested otherwise."

John threw his arms up into the air in defeat. "Officially dropping the subject," he announced, making his way into the kitchen. And then half to himself, "Do you suppose the pizza's still any good?"

Sherlock leaned sideways to still see John as he entered the other room. "From yesterday? Of course. It was left out for some time, but not long enough to go bad."

John pulled open the fridge and removed the pizza box, placing it atop the already cluttered table behind him. The ex-army doctor then pulled out a slice and took all of one bite before immediately beginning to choke and gag. Eyes wide, John rushed to the sink and coughed up the thing that had gotten stuck in his throat.

"You okay?" Sherlock asked from the living room.

"Yeah. Pizza's fine; something just refused to go down for a minute there."

There was a long pause before: "Was it by any chance a piece of garlic?"

John peered into the sink to confirm this. "Okay, yes, maybe, but that doesn't prove anything! Just a random coincidence, that's all!" He slammed his pizza back on top of its box angrily.

"Careful," Sherlock said, watching him. "Remember what happened last time you got upset and threw a hissyfit? Besides, the last thing you want is to hurt yourself getting cut on something; suppose the vampire catches your scent again and decides to come back for more."

The frustrated noise that came from John was almost inhuman. Sherlock even jumped a little in surprise before sinking down into his chair as the other man came stomping towards him. "That's it!" he growled. "Tell you what: you better sure as hell hope I don't start growing fangs and developing a taste for people, because if that does end up being the case, I can promise you that the next smartass comment coming out of your mouth will be the last of its kind!"

Sherlock sort of squeaked at this and, although as of yet aware of it, within the next 48 hours John would come to regret his words.

-x-

It was little things at first.

"John, I'm sure you're fine..." Sherlock groaned in slight agitation. "It was just a slight sunburn, that's all."

It was more than 'slight'; John had turned an alarming shade of red across the back of his neck and over his ears. Ignoring his flatmate, John pulled his hood up over his head and reached for a pair of oversized sunglasses.

"You're being silly! Just put on some lotion or aloe or something and it should clear up in no time at all."

"You know that's not what I'm worrying about," John replied coolly, putting on the glasses. It took all Sherlock had to keep from bursting in a fit of laughter at his friend's new attire.

"Please tell me you don't seriously think you're turning into a vampire," he chuckled.

"Of course not!"

Sherlock raised a skeptical eyebrow at John, who went on. "Look, there's nothing to be ashamed of when it comes to playing it safe. I never burn - I'm was in Afghanistan for months without much more than a dark tan!"

Snorting again, Sherlock pulled an umbrella out from behind a trash bin and wielded it over his shoulder, grinning. "Well, in that case, I don't suppose it could hurt any to bring along any extra precautions."

"You're making fun of me again, aren't you?" John pouted.

"Nonsense! I simply won't stand for anyone bursting into flames in the middle of a case; spontaneous combustion is terribly distracting, doncha' know?"

"...Jackass."

-x-

"What's his problem?" Lestrade demanded.

Sherlock gave a sidelong glance in his companion's direction. He and John were just stopping by Lestrade's to drop off some of their findings (the D.I. had taken to working on this particular case in the privacy of his own room, as to avoid immature jokes from the rest of the task force along the lines of 'Greg the Vampire Slayer'), but for some reason John made no effort to budge from their host's front porch.

The two visitors had a temporary squinting match before Sherlock finally caught on. "Oh, uh, it's some new thing he's trying out - religious nuts, what can you do?"

"I'm sorry, I don't think I follow...?"

"Mr. Watson would appreciate it if you formally invited him indoors."

Lestrade hesitated, unsure of what to make of this situation, until he remembered that he didn't care and shrugged it off. "Yeah, of course. Make yourself at home." Weirdos.

John nodded his thanks at the D.I. before following the others inside.

-x-

John yelped, pulling his arm away and instinctively rubbing it with his opposite hand. Sherlock peered over his shoulder, curious as to what had occurred. "Metal cross?"

"No... Holy water, I think."

Torn between the urge to make fun of John yet again and a legitimate concern for his mental stability, Sherlock hesitated momentarily before placing his own hand into the pool of water in front of them. However, this second opinion didn't do much to confirm John's claim.

"I wouldn't make something like this up," John pleaded. "You know I-"

But he was cut short when the priest, having finished his previous conversation, strode up the aisle, stopping between the two investigators. "I apologize for the wait. This is about Miss Garner, isn't it? The poor girl..."

"Ah, yes! Terrible circumstances," Sherlock muttered. "However, we have reason to believe that... Uh, sir?" The detective trailed off with a sidelong glance in the direction of the other man, who appeared to have started staring off into the distance.

"Oh! Of course, sorry!" the older man exclaimed, somewhat flustered. "It's just that the... strangest sensation came over me for a minute there." And then, in a hushed tone: "It was as if an unholy presence were among us - in this very church!"

With a nervous squeak, John flailed his uninjured arm out into the air and collapsed to the floor. Sherlock smiled uneasily at the priest before taking a knee beside him.

"What is it now?" he hissed.

"Sherlock, he knows!"


	6. Chapter 6

"I'm not a child!" Raven retorted, a hint of agitation in her voice. "Believe me, the last thing I need is a couple of old farts such as yourselves babysitting me. If anything, you're the ones who need protection - Alex loves me! He wouldn't harm a hair on my head!"

"Must we go over this again, Miss Reyes?" Sherlock sighed. "We're not here to 'babysit', as you so blatantly put it. We have Scotland Yard posted outside all of your batty lover's usual locations; if he hasn't already been arrested, I suppose the man is off looking for a new hideout. On the off chance that he shows up at your doorstep within the next few hours, we'll already be one step ahead."

Raven shrugged nonchalantly. "You still give me too much credit. I won't turn on my own boyfriend for the sake of your dumb morals. It's a dog eats dog world; vampires hunt people and no shabby pair of handcuffs you have on you can possibly hold a creature of such strength. You're wasting your time here."

"Handcuffs on a vampire? Perhaps not. But you? Certainly."

Raven frowned. "What do you mean, 'me'? You aren't seriously thinking... No way! You can't do that, that's - that's cheating!"

"See, we anticipated such a response and came prepared."

On cue, John snapped a pair of handcuffs around Raven's wrist. The girl shrieked, attempting to jerk away before he fastened the second cuff to her wrought iron bedpost. "This is insane!" she wailed. "You're both madmen!"

"Told you it wouldn't go over well," John muttered flatly. "Let it be known that this was entirely my colleague's idea, Raven, and if there were any other way-"

"I originally suggested taking you at gunpoint, but John opted out of the theatrical route." Raven pursed her lips together, making another jerk forward. Metal clanked against metal and she was held in place. Sherlock waited for her to quiet down again before continuing, "I do apologize for any inconvenience that the current situation has given rise to. However, if your not-vampire male friend really does care for you the way you say he does, I don't doubt for a second that he'd rather turn himself in than risk seeing you hurt."

"But we wouldn't actually hurt you," John chimed in reassuringly.

With an exaggerated huff, Raven threw herself down upon the bed, chin buried in her pillow. "On second thought, I hope Alex does come here. Seeing your sorry asses kicked to a bloody pulp just might make my night!" she snarled.

John looked to Sherlock, his mouth slightly ajar in disbelief of what he had just heard. Sherlock remained unfazed.

"And on that pleasant note, I'm off. You kids play nice now, and you know how to reach me if anything goes horribly wrong." John gave Sherlock a quick nod and watched the other man disappear into the other room.

-x-

The following couple of hours were a bit of a blur to John, who remembered having retreated to Raven's living room (more specifically, the stack of bean bags that had been tempting him the last time he had been over) to end his dispute with Raven over who was a better writer: Rice or Meyers. Unable to sway the girl's opinion, John continued reading Interview with the Vampire in the peace and quiet of the other room.

Quite some time had passed, but the man had become so lost in the story that he hardly noticed. He must've dozed off at some point, because the next thing John remembered vividly was returning to consciousness with the smell of something sweet and pleasant still redolent in his nostrils. It was funny; John didn't recall having ventured back into Raven's bedroom, and yet there he was, sprawled across her soft bed.

John reached an arm forward, about to prop him up, when his fingertips touched something wet and sticky. The army doctor bolted upright, immediately snapping back into the moment, and saw that the bed was covered dark, thick pools of what could only be blood, staining the sheets and seeping into their mattress. Just behind him lay Raven's limp body, a bite-sized chunk missing from the side of her neck. John pressed the palm of his hand over his mouth to hold in a scream and stumbled backwards off of the bed, nearly tripping over the red and white sheet that had become tangled around his ankles.

John reached a full-length mirror plastered to the wall and stopped in front of it, examining his own condition. With a single glance he could see the red that had stained the bottom portion of his face and had been smeared across his off-white jumper. By that point John's legs had given out beneath him and he came tumbling down to the floor. With a shaking hand, John pulled out his mobile and began sending a text.

Sherlock, could you please hurry back? I think I did something bad. JW

He waiting in silence for a minute or so, all the while trying to keep from hyperventilating, until his mobile began to buzz in his hands and he nearly dropped it in surprise.

I'm on my way. SH

John pressed the mobile close to his chest and squeezed his eyes shut, taking deep breaths. Although it felt like ages, it couldn't have been much more than a half hour before he heard the unlocked front door swing open and Sherlock's voice calling out his name with a sense of urgency in his tone.

Moments later Sherlock rounded the corner and spotted John. "John... John are you...!" Unable to finish his sentence, Sherlock came bounding forward and immediately began searching his friend for any wound that could have caused so much bleeding. "What happened to you?" he whispered frantically.

John shook his head, pushing Sherlock away. "It's not mine. I... I... I'm okay, but, Raven, she..."

Sherlock stood up again, reexamining the crime scene in its entirely. "You did this?" he finally managed.

"It's my fault... I don't remember doing it... I didn't want to hurt her, Sherlock, you know I didn't! It just... it all just happened so fast - I don't even remember, but there was this... this smell, and..." John's eyes widened as his breathing sped up once again. "Sherlock, I didn't mean to do it! I didn't want to hurt her! I don't want to... hurt anybody..."

"Shh, shh, shhhh..." Sherlock cooed, crouching down next to John and pulling him into a hug. John clung to the taller man's middle, pressing his face into Sherlock's shoulder and sobbing. "It's okay, John. Everything is going to be okay, you'll see..."

"But it's not okay," John whimpered, his voice cracking. "I did this, Sherlock. I killed her... Even if it was an accident, I know I did!"

"Don't talk like that. It's wasn't you, John. This thing that's inside of you... whatever it is... it's not you. You can fight it."

"I can't-"

"Shhhh."

"I'm a bad person, Sherlock! I - I'm a monster!"

Sherlock placed a hand over John's head comfortingly. "You're not a bad person and you're certainly not a monster. You're a good person, you've just had something bad happen to you. Don't ever forget that."

John pushed away from Sherlock, looking him dead in the eye. "You have to do it. If anyone's going to, I want it to be you."

Sherlock frowned. "Whatever do you mean?"

"You know what I'm talking about. It's too late for me, Sherlock. That may've been the first time, but if you don't stop me, it certainly won't be the last. Sherlock, I don't want to turn into that... to have this - this thing take over me!"

John's request sent a shiver down Sherlock's spine. "John... you know I can't do that..." The detective leaned forward, taking John's shaking hands in his own. "Maybe you can't fight it on your own, but I can help! I don't care what it takes - you can sleep in a coffin and only speak to me after the sun's down, I don't care - but you have to promise me you won't give up! Mycroft should have no trouble hooking us up with donated blood. Maybe... maybe if it's fresh, you won't have to... Instead, we could..." Sherlock blinked, suddenly aware that he was almost in tears himself.

"I'm scared," John choked softly.

Sherlock pulled the other man in again, being the only thing he could think to do to help for the time being. "I know," he whispered. "Me too."


	7. Chapter 7

It was close to midnight and a thick gray fog blanketed the darkened city outside. His heart pounding against his chest, John paced back and forth across the flat, occasionally stopping to glance up at Sherlock, who had been leaning against the windowsill and remained deathly silent. In his hands was a knife and a thick block of wood, which Sherlock was in the midst of fashioning into a stake.

The two of them hadn't said a word since they returned to 221b. John had immediately jumped in the shower and gotten changed into clean clothes, venturing back into the living room to find Sherlock in the middle of his whittling project.

"Changed your mind?" John gulped.

"This one doesn't have your name on it," Sherlock answered, hardly looking up from his task. "I'm saving it for the evil son of a bitch who did this to you."

John's eyes lit up in alarm. "Sherlock, we talked about this - this thing doesn't have a cure, and going on some crazy revenge trip isn't going make me feel any better!" The man charged forward, reaching for Sherlock's weapon. "If you can't do it, I will!"

Rather than pull away, Sherlock slipped a hand into his own coat and whipped out a bulky wooden cross, shoving it towards John as if he were creating a barrier between the two of them. He then got up and strode towards John, driving the other man backwards until he was cornered on the opposite end of the room. John bared his teeth at Sherlock in response to this.

"No, John, _you_ talked about it," Sherlock was saying. "I've said it before, and I will again: I won't let anything happen to you, undead on not."

"A little late for that," John snarled back.

"You think I don't know that? Alex is still out there, and if driving a stake through his cold heart is the last thing I ever do, so be it. You, on the other hand, will stay out of it and not move a muscle until—"

But Sherlock never did finish his sentence, for almost immediately John had knocked the cross out of the taller gentleman's hand, sending it flying across the room. Had he been quicker to react, perhaps Sherlock would've had an easier time pinning John back up against the wall. Instead, he thrown to the ground with a loud thud.

Sherlock winced, struggling to stand himself up before John launch a second attack. If he didn't know better, he'd say John had practically doubled in strength since their last… aggressive negotiation. Seeing the other man rearing back towards him, Sherlock rolled out of the way and reached for the curtains, tearing them forcefully off of their rod. Despite John's best efforts, he refused to resort to fighting back with the stake he had carved.

When John came within several feet again, Sherlock threw the curtains over him, wrapping the braid-like cords around John tightly and knotting them in place. John let out a high-pitched screech and continued to thrash about in the trap as Sherlock hugged onto him, struggling to maneuver the both of them into his bedroom, where he chucked John into the closet and shut the door behind him.

As quick as he could, Sherlock propped a wooden chair up against the doorknob in place of locking it. From inside he could hear John's muffled (and rather profane) shouting. Once he'd made sure that John would have quite some trouble attempting to escape, Sherlock fetched anything containing garlic from the kitchen and stacked it atop the chair, just in case. With a sharpie he drew a giant cross over the door and, finally satisfied with his work, retrieved a crossbow from under his bed and set off on his mission.

-x-

"Come on out!" Sherlock screamed as loud as he could. "Come and fight me, you coward!"

Part of him worried that Alex wouldn't show. That he was simply wasting his time, running around the fog-covered graveyard in the dead of night to no avail. John would still be a vampire when he got back, successful in his endeavor or otherwise. He wanted to believe what he had told John about the whole thing, that he was still the same man despite his condition, but even that seemed impossible. After all, Sherlock had seen what John was now capable of, and it scared him.

What if he came back to find that was all that was left of what used to be his only real friend? What if John was right, and the only way he could help him was to honor his dying wish and… and…

Sherlock shook his head, refusing to dwell on such morbid possibilities. It was then that he heard a rustling in the nearby bushes. Focusing back in on the hunt, Sherlock charged forward, recognizing his moonlit figure.

No mistake, that was him: Alexander Theis, the vampire who was about to get his sorry ass a one-way ticket back hell. Sherlock pounced on the creature from behind, tackling it to the ground. From underneath him, Alex managed to wriggle onto his back just in time to see Sherlock lift a stake above his head.

"Stop!" Alex cried out in defeat, throwing both arms up defensively.

Sherlock hesitated, still poised to strike. It was a strange feeling, how wrapped up in anger and hate he had been just moments ago, but now that he had Alex exactly where he wanted him, it all seemed to fade away. The man lying helplessly at his feet couldn't be much more than a kid.

In fact, he was a kid and not a vampire at all. A single glance revealed the entire story to the consulting detective. It was a strange story. A story about a medical student who met a girl and fell in love. Not with her, but with the idea that she worshipped. With becoming something from another world, dark and misunderstood, just as Alex Theis was.

With a horrified look in his eyes, Alex removed a pair of fake fangs, as if proving a point to his captor. Sherlock lowered his weapon but still kept watchful eye on Alex as he reached for the mobile in his pocket and dialed Lestrade. "I found your guy… Yes, of course he was a fraud. They always are… I'm at the graveyard. Don't worry, this one's not going _anywhere_."

Sherlock waited with his prisoner until the cops arrived, handcuffing the man and forcing him into one of their vehicles. Lestrade offered his thanks to Sherlock, who politely pushed them aside, before rejoining his own men.

-x-

Meanwhile, John had been running down the sidewalk in the opposite direction, fearing that Sherlock was about to do something terrible and he was the only one who could stop it. Ironically enough, they ran into each other just as John was rounding the block's corner. Quite literally.

"Oh! Sherlock, thank God!" John gasped, jumping a step back.

Sherlock and John stared back at one another in silence, taking in all that had just happened. The army doctor finally spoke, attempting to relieve some of the tension they both felt in that moment. "So, uh. Good news: I'm not actually a vampire. In case you were still worried about that.

"No. No, I figured as much."

"And the killer, Alex? He was really…?"

"Human. An idiot, but you'd have to be to do all that to impress some fangirl. Unfortunately, Alex became too wrapped up in his own game to know when to quit, and Raven payed the price for it."

John nodded sadly, biting his lip. "…You weren't really going to, y'know,_ slay_ him, were you?"

"I thought he was a vampire!" Sherlock snapped suddenly. His words echoed across the empty alleyway and they fell into silence once more. This only lasted for a brief moment, however, when John threw a hand over his mouth in an attempt to stifle a chuckle. "Oh, shut up!" Sherlock hissed. "You were the one who was honest-to-God convinced that you were transforming into Dracula!"

Unable to contain himself any longer, John bust up into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. "I did!" he wheezed. "I really, truly did!"

Apparently his good attitude about the whole thing was contagious, as Sherlock couldn't help but join in after a while. The two of them attempted (without much success) to converse during the gigglefits, but their voices kept cracking between half-sentences.

"You looked so stupid in those glasses—"

"And then - then you grabbed the umbrella _just in case_—"

"I didn't want to be held responsible for your spontaneous combustion!"

Practically crying, the consulting derpfaces had little choice but to lean up against the alley's wall to keep from falling over until they'd finally begun to calm down.

"We're such idiots," John breathed.

"Hang on, I seem to have misplaced my left lung," Sherlock snorted, straightening himself again.

As their laughter died down, the dark alley went eerily quiet once more. John sighed softly, pressing his head against Sherlock's shoulder.

"Hey, check out that moon," he said, pointing up at the night sky. Sure enough, shining bright above them was a perfectly round moon. "I know you don't really appreciate space or anything like that, but… just look at how full it is!"

"Hm. I suppose it is quite lovely… I mean, if you're into that sort of thing."

Suddenly a high-pitched scream pierced through the calm, followed by a bloodcurdling howl. Sherlock and John froze in place and listened as the wolf's cry faded into nothingness. John swallowed loudly, giving Sherlock an uneasy look. His companion looked back at him, his face twisting into a crooked smile.

"Whelp. Hope you weren't looking forward to sleeping tonight, my dear Watson."

"Not in the least. Let's gank this motherfucker."

EL FIN C:


End file.
